


Florist Gibby Drabble

by Ian_the_Existential_Crisis



Series: Apex Ficlets [7]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Drabble, Florist Gibby, Lots of implication, Other, This was a Three AM Post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25850977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ian_the_Existential_Crisis/pseuds/Ian_the_Existential_Crisis
Summary: I don't really have a good summary for this.
Series: Apex Ficlets [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705861
Kudos: 6





	Florist Gibby Drabble

The thing about flowers was they all had a special meaning. They spoke their own language. And everything, right down to the color, could change everything about what someone wanted to say.

And as a florist, Makoa thought he knew a little something about what people were saying through their flowers. One of the things he loved about his job was seeing all of his customers come in and arrange what they wanted.

Roses, as usual, flew out the door. They were often thought to be the best symbol of love. But others sold too. Mums, and daisies and hydrangea too. Lilies usually sold well later in the spring time for formals and school dances.

Some of the flowers he sold were so pure, like the younger couples looking for something to match their evening wear, whether it be for a party or just a sweet night on the town spent in each other’s arms.

Some are more meaningful and sorrowful. Such as the older man who came by, as he did almost every other Thursday to get his bundle of hyacinths and forget me nots, to put on his wife’s grave. She had died young, but he gave her flowers every other week as a testament to his love and devotion.

Things like that made Makoa’s heart shatter

“Do you have any carnations?” One man asked, walking in. The spring air was still cool as the morning sun barely peeked over the horizon.

“What color, ma brotha?” Makoa asked.

His eyes ran over the youngish man. His skin was darker than not, but not as dark a brown as his hair. His eyes, which he wouldn’t drag up from the floor, looked hurt and not just because of the old scar that kept his right eye as its home.

“Striped if you have any.”

Makoa felt himself frown. That wasn’t a happy flower. But this didn’t look like a happy man.

“Rejection is hard.” Makoa gave the man a small smile. “It gets better.”

“I suppose.”


End file.
